So, up until this point, my husband has managed to escape any real significant embarrassment in my stories. Oh, I have talked about how we met, and his less than adventurous culinary tastes. I may have mentioned a drunken party foul or two, and I DID post that picture of him in yellow tights. But compared to all the stories about my smelly teenagers and their nether bits, Greg has really dodged some bullets. That ends today.
We are talking about gas. And I don’t mean ethanol, petrol or helium. Not argon, hydrogen, carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide or ether. There will be no discussion of butane, oxygen or halogen. Nope. We are talking about methane. Toots. Farts. Whistleberries.
Now, I know the more sensitive of you are thinking “Lawdy Mercy—can’t believe this girl is writing about gas…Shocking…Vulgar…tres declasse….”
I say, you’re right! But…Children adore it. Wives fear it. Animal rights…
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